KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set (37 page)

I opened the door and didn't look back. Bruno was done with the Bentley and he'd parked it in front of my car. He seemed to be waiting, leaning on the Bentley's trunk. Jazzy was still in place in the Shelby, so I figured Bruno had been smart enough not to mess with my dog or my car.

"There's something else, E Z."

Eyeing Bruno, I said, "What now?"

"Sophie...she's a high-maintenance diabetic."

I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly. I faced her. "What?"

"She's had juvenile diabetes for over two years now. I kept it quiet."

"But Jason didn't mention that."

"Ha! You think he knows — that he'd even notice? The few times he was around her long enough to say 'hi,' he didn't think to even ask how she was, what her day had been like, if she'd learned anything from her tutor. I didn't want to complicate his 'important' career. And I certainly didn't want the press to find out."

"How often does she need insulin?"

"She takes a minimum of four shots daily, and her blood sugar has to be monitored in between. When there's a lot going on, we check it six or more times a day. Normally, she has sugar candy with her for when her blood sugar is low."

"What about now?"

She stared at me, her eyes shifting, then they pooled with tears, again. "She has nothing with her that I know of. I checked the refrigerator, and none of the insulin seems missing — I don't think any was taken with her." She clutched at me again. "Oh, E Z! I'm so worried — she's been off of insulin at least thirty-six hours!"

I stood in the front entryway, stunned — feeling like George Foreman had just punched me in the gut.

Finally turning away, I headed for the car.

Bruno was looking past me at his nude employer. I wondered how many times he'd had that view.

She called out, "And what about the Academy Awards?"

I stopped halfway to my car. "Who're you going with?"

"My new agent...Mark...something."

"Ditch him."

"You mean go by myself? And let everyone make fun of the old has-been who not only can't find a good part in a movie but can't even get a date to the Oscars?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then who?" She took a thoughtful pause. Her voice lifted. "You?"

"It's a date, then," I replied over my shoulder, my eyes on Bruno. "You'll arrange for my tux, won't you, my love?"

I figured she wouldn't have any trouble guessing my size. She'd had plenty of experience sizing men up.

Chapter 11

Gun Play / Fun Day

When I hopped
back into the Shelby, Jazzy was sitting in the passenger seat like I'd left her — her attention away from the muscle-bound brute leaning on the $300,000 car in front of us. Of course my classic was worth every penny as much — it's just that it was forty-five years older.

I commended Jazzy on her choice of interests as she watched a couple of squirrels play on the large front lawn. It needed mowed.

When I patted my companion, she looked away from the lawn rodents just long enough to acknowledge me. All it would take was a simple "okay," and she'd be out there playing with the nut collectors. But, she was being a good girl, and there was no time for play.

I reached into the console, took out my old Kansas City Royals baseball cap and put it on. I'd had a little sunburn lately and my father had just had some benign spots removed from his face. Why take any chances?

Of course I wasn't worried about pissing anyone off with my choice of baseball caps. Gangs around here wouldn't care. Most everyone in SoCal wore Angels, Dodgers or Padres hats. Once in a while you might see Athletics, or Giants — sometimes wearing one of those can lead to a tussle. But KC Royals? It's not like they've beaten up another team in the playoffs lately. Being originally from Kansas, however; I had to be true to my home state. Don't say it; the Royals is a Missouri team, I know. But Kansas doesn't have a pro baseball team, and since Missouri has two, they ought to at least share the one that hasn't seen a playoff in over twenty-five years.

As I started up the big 428 and it growled to life, I considered what Stella had told me. I didn't remember diabetes insulin in the kitchen fridge. Of course, it was a mansion. There were probably at least a couple of refrigerators.

After driving past Bruno and down the long driveway, I pulled out onto the fashionable Beverly Hills street. Making my way through the affluent neighborhood of the rich and famous, I wondered what celebrities lived in some of the mansions. I knew that stars like Tom Cruise, Jennifer Aniston, Courtney Cox, Orlando Bloom, and Christina Aguilera had residences here — as well as other celebrities like Simon Cowell and Dr. Phil.

I wouldn't be taking the scenic route back to the marina, however; Sunset to Whittier, past Wilshire to Santa Monica Boulevard and then the San Diego Freeway. Turning onto Sunset Boulevard, I noticed a dark Nissan Altima follow through the intersection behind me.
  It had shadowed several turns over the past few minutes.
Same goombas?
 In my review mirror, I discovered another familiar vehicle; a metallic-blue Porsche convertible, three cars behind the Nissan sedan. It made me smile.

The late model Nissan with darkly-tinted windows demanded my attention now. Seeing no need to work very hard to lose this tail, I took my time. It didn't matter that they knew where I'd been or where I was going. It was more important for me to see who they were. But I also knew from this morning that at least one of them had a gun, and had tried, albeit incompetently, to kill Oz and See-Saw last night.

If they were up to no good and were in this competition to
off me
, they surely wouldn't be stupid enough to try it in broad daylight on Sunset Boulevard. After putting my cell phone in video mode, I set it on the console between Jazzy and me and slowed down at the next signal light that was about to change.

I stopped before the light turned yellow, and my tail pulled up behind me. Watching in the rearview mirror, I readied my cell phone in one hand — hoping I'd be lucky enough to get an identifiable image when the Nissan pulled around.

When the light turned to green, I didn't move, but kept my eye on the rearview. We sat through an entire light, and they didn't even honk as several cars went around us. I became somewhat wary of them, watching to ensure no one got out to run up on me. What I thought was Jason Ryder's little Porsche wasn't in view, now probably the next car back behind the Nissan, because those in between most likely would have driven around by now.

Interesting
. I wondered what was going through the minds of the goofballs in the Nissan — what the carload of goombas's strategy was. I hoped I'd thrown them into an unplanned situation, so they were more likely to make a mistake — a rash move that might give me the upper hand. With me in front of them, and a witness behind who they had to know was on my side — she would have surely gone around by now, otherwise — they would be taxing their accumulated and miniscule brain matter for a new strategy.

I told Jazzy, "Get ready, darlin'. This could get as ugly as Bruno's broken nose." I strapped her in again. This time I punched the CD player to start Jagger and the Stone's "Sympathy for the Devil."

After pulling my Beretta 96 Stock out from under the seat, I racked a .40 caliber round into the chamber, flipped the ambidextrous safety off and laid it in front of Jazzy.

"You remember how to use this, don't you sweetheart?" I joked to her.

She glanced back, her eyes reflecting my own tension. Humor would not ease this situation.

The light was green again, still nothing. Then, with a screech of tires, they pulled out, rolling up alongside with both side windows coming down. With my Beretta now on my lap in one hand, I raised my phone with the other and started the video. Suddenly, all I saw were guns — lots of them.

"Holy shi-it! Down!" I said, then the world went to slow-mo, and everything happened at once.

*  *  *

I get off one very good shot, drop the gun and camera onto my lap and pull Jazzy by the collar over the seatbelt and to the floorboard.

At the same time the light turns red, a shotgun, an assault rifle and two handguns open up. Ducking, I floor the old Shelby but the street ahead is already full of intersecting traffic. I have to turn into the flow to the right, smashing into two fenders on the way.

The Nissan follows. With two tires blown out, my windshield shattered and too many bullets in my engine and radiator to count, I run onto the curb, over the sidewalk and into a clump of shrubbery.

The shots continue, me without a chance to return fire. I lie on top of Jazzy Brass, searching for my .40 caliber, as pieces of windshield, rearview mirror and roll bar rain down upon us. No handgun — but I do find my phone.

The sound of more distant automatic fire comes from behind, and I notice fragments from my old muscle car have quit falling. Keeping Jazzy down with one hand, I raise up cautiously.

The Nissan is pulling away into traffic, and Zoya is standing up in the stopped Porsche hammering them with a Tech 10 as they leave. She slams in a second magazine. I find my gun, and consider popping them a couple more times too, but the risk of hitting an innocent bystander is too great.

They're gone. Jazzy climbs back into the seat beside me, head ducked timidly and tail tucked.

"You okay, girl?"

She doesn't give me the usual tail thump in return, but with a quick once over, I decide she doesn't seem to be hurt. I can't say that much for my Shelby. It is in utter shambles.

Zoya pulls up. "Quick, E Z! In car! Cops come!"

I realize she's right. If I stay, I'll be pulled into a lengthy and time consuming investigation — that would take up time we don't have if we're to get little Sophie back.

I lead a reluctant Jazzy Brass to the Russian girl's borrowed Porsche. We get into the blue sports car and brace ourselves. Three-point-two seconds later, we're flying 60 mph and climbing, speeding away from Sunset Boulevard. Shrinking in the distance; what was once a gorgeous, red 1968 Shelby Mustang GT 500 King of the Road — its body crunched, tires flat, rims bent, interior in shreds and steam coming from between the huge cracks in its splintered fiberglass hood.

Chapter 12

Flame-Broiled Tirade

Zoya was driving
me and Jazzy back to Smokey's Marina when I decided to give Jason a call and do a little fishing.

Jason picked up.

I told him, "I wanted to let you know I stole your bodyguard."

"Okay by me, E Z. I've got enough women to give me trouble — keep her."

I gave a quick glance and nod to Zoya. She smiled back.

"E Z, I just got off the phone with the kidnapper." He was excited, a hopeful lift in his voice. "They want five million in cash by tomorrow morning and they want you to be their delivery boy."

Hmm,
I thought.
Five million plus the ten million dollar contract on my head — not bad. They're finally wanting to pay what I'm worth.

"Where?"

"We're supposed to be at a parking lot in Laguna Beach by 5:30 a.m. They'll call me at that time and give us the meeting location."

"Can you pull together that much cash by then?"

"That's not going to be a problem. Scott Pula, my manager, was listening in on another phone, and he's already started the arrangements."

"Did they say
why
they want me?"

"No. I asked, but they ignored the question."

"Jason, does Sophie have diabetes?"

"What? No. She's as healthy as a six-year-old can be. Why do you ask?"

"I met with Stella, today."

I waited for an acknowledgement. Only silence on the other end.

I continued, "She told me a different story about her situation and about Sophie's."

"Come on, E Z! Who are you going to believe? Of course she tells a different story. You know she wouldn't open her mouth or lift a finger unless it was to make herself look good — or to make you feel sorry for her."

Well, she just made me feel good and look sorry
, I wanted to say, but restrained myself.

Instead I told him, "She says Sophie's a very high maintenance diabetic and needs insulin shots several times a day. Had juvenile diabetes for two years now."

"E Z, that's bullshit. Don't you think I would've known?"

"She says you're so consumed with yourself and your career when you're around them, you don't think of anything else."

"Don't you see, E Z! That's her. This has to be some kind of ploy. It's bullshit."

"What about the Academy Awards tomorrow night — you didn't tell me about that."

"Geez, E Z. I thought you knew. You live in a cave or something?"

"Yeah, that's what she said." I decided not to correct him and tell him it was a
boat
— not a cave. "You're up for Best Actor?"

"My third nomination. I have a good chance, this time. But all that doesn't matter."

"It does. This mess might have something to do with the Oscars.

"I don't see how."

"Regardless. Your recently deemed ex is presenting Best Actor, right? If you win, you might have to face her, eye-to-eye — hug her and shake her hand — if you win."

"Won't that be a trip — but we've got to get this kidnapping business taken care of and get Sophie back before then."

"I agree, Jason. But don't be near-sighted. Sophie's kidnapping might only be the proverbial tip of the iceberg."

"Okay, so what do we do? You want me to plan on skipping the ceremony?"

"No. Depending on what happens tomorrow morning, I think you need to be there and receive your award, if you win."

"Okay..."

"I'll warn you now: Stella has threatened to club you with ol' Oscar and then stick him up your ass."

"She always was a little kinky that way."

"I'm serious, Jason. We're not looking at this thing right. There's more to it, and we don't want to get caught with our tux trousers down. By the way, I'll be there as Stella's escort."

"What? You, E Z?" He chuckled. "On the
red carpet
? I don't believe it!"

"Believe it. But, like you say, we need to get past this other business."

He said, "Okay, let's meet and put a plan together. I'll be busy for the next couple of hours helping Scott get the money rounded up, but can you come this evening? God, I need to get Sophie back. She's all I have."

That's what you keep telling me.
"Yeah, that's what Stella said, too."

We agreed to meet at Scott Pula's office a couple of blocks off of Rodeo Drive in five hours — at 6:00 p.m.

I also gave Jason a rundown on the
attack of the goombas
, the loss of my car and the need for me to avoid the police that would surely be looking for me.

For now, we needed to meet with my very own, soon-to-be-assembled A-Team. But Zoya and I would have to duck in and out of the marina quickly. When the police figured out my mailing address, they'd be all over The Wizard's Grog — and that included Lt. Harper Legend.

It was 1:00 p.m., and Zoya, Jazzy Brass and I were getting hungry. While looking for an In-N-Out Burger or maybe a Del Taco, I checked my cell phone video to see if I'd gotten anything useful from just prior to our shootout. It was nothing but blurred gun barrels — completely useless.

We couldn't find any of the more popular fast-food chain restaurants — usually you find them everywhere you look in SoCal. Finally Zoya pulled into one I hadn't tried before, a Burger Bender. We ordered three cheeseburgers, fries and drinks. Jazzy loved chicken nuggets, but they weren't on the menu. She'd have to make due. I promised her next time we'd find a Wendy's, and she could
have it
her way
. It was hard telling when she'd get back on her normal diet of dry dog food and an occasional spoon of pumpkin or slice of apple.

I gave Zoya a twenty-dollar bill and she paid the kid at the window. He didn't look like a high school student, had to be at least twenty, hair spiked, with body piercings and tattoos. Jada, my young friend back at the marina, has a similar look. But I soon found out that she wears it with a hell of a lot more personality.

The young man, obviously a career fast-food customer-service engineer, dumped the change into Zoya's hands.

Don't they teach kids to count back change anymore?

I figured by the looks of him, he'd have a heck of a time counting back more than a nickel anyway.

He gave us the drinks.

They'd overflown their lids, and soda was dripping down the sides of the cups.

We asked for napkins.

He stuck a wad of them out the window.

A minute later, he handed us the bag of food.

We had to ask for straws.

He passed us half a dozen for two drinks.

We had to ask for ketchup.

He handed us mayonnaise instead.

I told him we wanted ketchup not mayonnaise.

He gave us a fistful, without reply.

We asked if there was salt in the bag.

He said, "No."

We waited. Ten seconds later, I asked, "Well, can we have some?"

He didn't say anything, but grabbed a handful of the tiny salt packets and stuck them out the window. At least a half dozen fell to the driveway beside the car door.

Zoya cupped her hands to receive the rest. He'd passed us enough salt to season every potato in Idaho, let alone two orders of French fries.

At that point, I considered pulling Zoya's Mach 10 out from under the seat, pointing it at him and informing him that I was a trained assassin and had snuffed more people than he had stainless steel rings on his face and dick — there were at least twenty on his face alone.

Instead, I swallowed the venom surging in my throat, and we thanked him.

Then...and this is the kicker — what do you think the little shit said in return? Come on, guess?

He said, "
No problem."

I don't know that you've noticed, but my day began two popcorn farts less than great, and it was turning out three root canals and a kidney stone more than terrible.

I was stressed. I'd had a bad day. My head was about to explode from the pressure building inside. My good nature was stretched across my face like a two-bit condom over a pineapple — let's say it developed a few holes.

To start with, first thing this morning, I get the finger from an old woman. That alone would ruin many a man's day. But then I discover my goddaughter has been kidnapped by people who want me dead; a boat blows up that was supposed to have been mine; I find a good friend beaten into hamburger by guys trying to kill me; I get shot at; I nearly fall off a cliff; I have to kick a big bald guy's ass; and then, to top it off, I only get half a BJ before finding out I'm being setup to be murdered.

Okay, that was just this morning. Next, the goombas who took a pot-shot at me come back and riddle my beautiful classic muscle car full of holes. I have to leave it in a heap of smashed up, smoldering metal because the cops are coming and, if I stick around, they'll arrest me, and I'll go back to prison.

So far today, I'd done nothing wrong — so far.

And then the kid at the fast-food window says, "
No problem
," in response to our polite "thank you" without so much as a glance at us.

*  *  *

I stretch over Jazzy and Zoya to the little convertible's driver side, get a foothold on the center console, and then reach into the drive-thru window. Jazzy and Zoya lean out of my way.

With my fists full of the server's uniform shirt, I pull him to me and our noses touch.

"All right, booger-eater; listen to me this one time." I start low and slow. "Your job is to wait on us; provide us with courteous service and a quality meal," I say, my voice coming out louder, words faster. "We; your customers — the reason you even
have
a job — say '
thank you.
' And how do
you
answer? With a smile and a respectful '
you're welcome — thank you for your business. Please come again,'
right?"

My eyes are bugging, spittle comes out unintentionally with my elevated words. "No-o. You say," I whine with a sneer in exaggerated imitation, "'
No problem
,' as if you feel the need to tell me it wasn't too damn far out of your way for you to do the job you're being paid to do — "

I take a deep breath, " — instead of what you'd be doing if we hadn't come to your little window: sitting on your dumb ass, atop a box of frozen beef and sawdust patties, listening to gangster rap while popping pimples with one hand and rubbing your balls like they're Aladdin's lamp and you're wishing you had something more than a three-inch pecker with the other.

"
No problem
? You say
no problem
to your neighbor when you pull a turd out of his toilet that got stuck sideways and clogged it up. You say
no problem
when you stop and fix a stranger's flat tire in the rain, even though you're going to be late for work. You say
no problem
when the guy with no arms standing beside you at the urinal asks you to shake the dew off his lily and put it back in his pants for him — that's when you say,
no freaking problem
!"

I'm glaring at him. He's gaping back, as are Zoya, Jazzy, the burger joint employees and the few customers who can see me from the inside.

"No
problem
?" I ask quietly, but with a ragged edge. My next words come out from between my barred teeth. "Of course it was no
damn
problem, you little freak!"

The kid is in shock. He finally stutters, "Yu-you're...wu-welcome — s-sir!"

"There. Was that so goddamn hard?"

I let him go, push off and slip back into my seat without looking at him. I answer, "No
problem
."

Zoya says, "Have nice day!" and we pull away.

*  *  *

I took a deep breath and within five minutes I was feeling pretty good.

I'd found a new level of focus from my stress-relieving encounter with the Burger Bender fast-food professional. My little tirade had helped me vent and realign my Karma that had gotten all out of whack during the morning craziness. Although, a mode of seriousness was demanded by the danger to my goddaughter, I found a somewhat more pleasant personality was not hard to maintain. As long as I didn't think about my Shelby, smoldering on the sidewalk like last night's bonfire I'd be fine.

Jazzy had relaxed after enjoying her fast-food meal and was enjoying the elevated seat she'd found between us on the Porsche's console. Her head up, ears blowing back, eyes squinting into the wind, cheeks filled with air and teeth exposed, she looked like some kind of maniacal mad dog from Hell. If she only had a bright green Mohawk and body piercings, she'd fit right in with some of the crowd on Rodeo Drive — or as a Burger Bender customer service technician.